


From What We Have Overcome

by TheUnassumingDoctor



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, papa lestrade, the boys are broken
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2645453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheUnassumingDoctor/pseuds/TheUnassumingDoctor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade stops by the flat to drop off some cases and finds the boys asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From What We Have Overcome

Greg opened the door slowly. He never knew what to expect behind the doors of 221b. He had opened the door on one to many experiments he would rather have not seen. He still couldn't get the sight of the entire living room covered in bright green goo out of his head. He smelled like peas for a week after that. Even three months later he still looked up at the ceiling before entering the room. 

Greg shuffled the box of case files Sherlock had requested to his other arm and pushed the door further open. He had received a text from the detective saying he had just finished a case and wanted to work on some cold cases before the adrenaline high wore off. Greg scooped up all the cases he could find and headed straight over to Baker Street. He had been known to solve up to ten cases in one night and Greg needed help with some of these cases.

Stepping into the room, Greg’s eyes darted to the ceiling just in case. Glancing at the chairs he noted the lack of an adrenaline filled, high-functioning sociopath. It was also way to quiet for the detective to be home. Greg set the box of files down beside the door and turned to leave. Sherlock would be sure to find them sitting here when he returned.  
He was just about to head out of the room when he heard something moving in the corner of the room. Stepping closer, the Inspector discovered the source of movement: curled together on the couch was the detective and his army doctor. Their legs were intertwined and John’s head was nestled into Sherlock’s neck. The lanky detective had his arms wrapped tightly around the smaller man and was holding him close almost like he was afraid to let go. John’s hand was placed over Sherlock’s heart as if he was counting every beat. Each beat proving that miracles do happen and the dead can walk once more among the living. 

Watching Sherlock jump had broken John. He stopped eating and hardly ever spoke to anyone. When he did talk it was only to give a quick yes or no to the questioner. He never started a conversation and his silence always ended them. It was over a year before John could speak his lost friend’s name and even then he had to choke it out. His therapist was useless, just like his missing friend had told him countless times. 

John used to sit in his chair and try to think about anything other than the tall detective, but looking at the empty chair in front of him only made it worse. The thoughts would never stop swirling though his mind. The detective had given him everything, now he had nothing but an empty chair. It took Mrs. Hudson ages and a lot of persuading to get him to leave the flat. She only succeeded because she had grabbed his arm and dragged him from Baker Street and to the store. 

Greg had become so worried about him that he convinced Mycroft to keep an eye out in case John attempted something he would regret. The depression had gotten bad and John was very close to ending it all, but like before, he managed to pull through. The anniversary was always the hardest. Greg had found him curled into the abandoned bed, eyes red from crying, gripping the lost genius’s pillow. John had finally spoke that night. He told Greg about being shot in Afghanistan and nearly dying from infection in a small foreign hospital. He said that he would go through the pain a thousand times rather than this, because losing Sherlock hurt more than being shot. John told Greg that Sherlock had saved his life the first time they met and it felt like he was slowly dying without him. If death was coming, John only wished it would arrive faster. He was done with suffering, done with waiting. Greg had sat there with John thought the night, keeping watch on the mourning doctor. In the morning neither man mentioned the midnight confession, but John seemed lighter after that. Like he was let go of the heavy load he was carrying. He wasn't fine, but he was better.

When Sherlock walked into Scotland Yard three years after he died, Greg was furious. He dragged the walking corpse into his office and proceeded to give Sherlock a piece of his mind. As Greg stood there yelling, the detective never looked up and never interrupted. He had begged Sherlock for answers, to tell him anything. He was about to start in again when the detective lifted his face from the floor he had been studying. Greg froze as Sherlock’s eyes met his for the first time since his death. The pale, ice-blue eyes were no longer sharp. Sherlock’s eyes were broken. All of the walls that had always surrounded him, protected him were torn down and left in crumbles. Greg didn't know what this man had been through, and he still doesn't, but he could see the pain in his shattered eyes. The untouchable detective was as broken as his doctor was. 

The first few months after Sherlock Holmes returned from the dead, were quiet. He wasn't the loud and overpowering genius he had been before the fall. He still read off the deduction, but he didn't show off anymore. He didn't correct Donovan or insult Anderson. He solved the murder and then went home, repeating the motions every day.  
It was John who revived his flatmate. He led him back home with open arms and forgave him. The two patched each other back together and things were beginning to return to normal. Well, as normal as you can get with a mad detective and his blogger. 

Greg looked at Sherlock and John snuggled together on the couch. They always brought out the best in each other and whether or not they could admit it, they needed one another. Greg grabbed the blanket hanging off the back of John’s chair and draped it over the sleeping pair. With a smile, Detective Inspector Lestrade closed the door behind him and ventured out into the night.


End file.
